


Aberration

by eisenbuns



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry, Canon Compliant, Case Fic, Character Death, Crime, F/F, F/M, Gen, Grunge, Head Auror Pansy, Minor Original Character(s), Multi, Murder Mystery, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Post-War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-03-02 02:12:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2795930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eisenbuns/pseuds/eisenbuns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A week before Harry Potter's 39th birthday, he is found murdered in his home. Follow Head Auror Pansy Parkinson as she takes on the biggest murder case of the century, with the help of some unlikely friends. Eventual Pansy/Hermione and Draco/Ginny. Possibly others, to be determined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all enjoy this piece. Please review to let me know what you think of it, because I'm really going to need some encouragement to keep it going. Along with this, though, please don't think that I only want positive reviews. I welcome and even encourage constructive criticism! Do you see a plot hole? Tell me about it! Do you have predictions or ideas? Tell me! Inspiration and growth come from all places. Thank you in advance for your help.

_If I should meet thee_

_After long years,_

_How should I greet thee?_

_With silence and tears._

-  _When We Two Parted_ , Lord Byron

Pansy Apparated just outside the tiny village of Godric's Hollow with a sharp crack, her official robes billowing around her. It was near dawn, and the peaked rooftops before her were bathed in soft pink light. The windows of each home were dark, the families inside still sleeping. It was peaceful; so much so, in fact, that it hardly seemed possible that something so earth-shakingly horrible had occurred here.

Her heels clicked on the cobblestone as she strode forward. She could almost feel the barrier of the anti-apparition charm envelop her once she stepped into the village. It was so quiet, as if even the birds could feel the disturbance of the barrier and so stayed well away. Quiet but for the clicking of her heels.

The Potter home sat nestled amongst the other houses, no grander and no shabbier than the rest. The front lawn was well-kept, neat and green, and the house itself was made of deep red brick. Once, Pansy might have scoffed at the idea of Potter having a picket-fence life, but now she felt only the heaviest of stones deep in her gut.

No press yet, thank Merlin. It was a wonder the Prophet hadn't got wind of this yet, but then again, her best men were on the job. Plain robes, she'd specified, nothing flashy. No visible badges or signs of distress. Minimal Aurors deployed until she'd had a look at everything. One of Pansy's secret pleasures was how well she'd settled in to her role as Head Auror. It had taken nearly a year for her to gain the respect that her predecessor - an older man by the name of Arnold Humphries - had commanded automatically. But her Aurors didn't so much as grumble when she gave them an order anymore.

As she approached the door, it opened to reveal Alistair Pike, one of her team members.

"Auror Parkinson," he greeted.

Pansy searched his face, which was quite round and generally cheerful, for some sign that the report was false. However, she found that it was almost sallow with seriousness, his blue eyes dark in confirmation.

"Show me."

Pike stepped aside to allow her entry into the house. He closed the door firmly behind her. "Coroner hasn't shown yet," he said and stepped in front of her to lead. "Oggen found him, poor bloke. Came in with some breakthrough on the Rogers case, he said, and there he was, just-"

"Wilson should be here soon," Pansy interrupted. She could deal with the witness later. She found herself looking around despite her resolve to remain as distanced as possible from the scene. Her eyes fell upon a portrait on the wall. Potter, grinning ear-to-ear with his arm around his beaming bride, three smaller faces in front of them. Two boys - both with dark hair, like Potter's. One sporting a grudging smile, the other genuinely excited and with his arm linked through his sister's - a ginger like her mother.

The sitting room looked just unkempt enough to be lived-in. The sofa had pillows that could use a nice fluff, and there was a horrid, disheveled quilt heaped on one end. Dozens of papers were haphazardly strewn across a coffee table. An abandoned mug of tea sat atop a thick folder. It looked as though Potter had been sleeping down there.

She almost smiled thinking of how she was going to rag on him for it, but the expression died immediately. Nothing to laugh about. Her face fell once again into the frown she wore while she worked.

"Just through here." Pike showed her through a doorway down the hall, into a rather large room that must have been Potter's study.

There was a fireplace large enough to stand in, presumably connected to the Floo network, because there was a sprinkling of powder on the mantel, and on the floor, but it looked old. A warm fire illuminated the cold scene, crackling cheerfully away and adding to the eerie silence.

A desk stood before the fireplace, made of fine oak. Augustus Mulberry, a short, fat man with a severe expression, stood beside it. He nodded his greeting.

Pansy only made brief eye contact with him, because her eyes were drawn to the figure at the desk behind him. She recognized Potter's frame easily. He was one of her best, though she never would have admitted it to him. His hulking frame, fit from years of Quidditch at Hogwarts and of work in the field, was slumped over his desk unnaturally. His head was pushed against yet more papers that creased beneath its heavy weight. She couldn't see his face.

She stepped forward, surveying the scene with a critical eye.

"Nobody touch a thing until we get the coroner here," she barked. "And someone get an owl to Creevey."

"Creevey isn't on duty tonight, Miss," Pike started.

"Did I  _ask_  if he was on duty?" she said shrilly. "Get him here,  _now_. I want the shots from him. Do not question me again!"

Admonished, Pike gave a short nod and exited the room.

She turned back to Potter and stepped carefully around the desk, around his large and comfortable-looking plush chair. It was a deep crimson lined with gold; a tribute, no doubt, to his days in Gryffindor common room. Pansy noted with interest that his chair was not the only one behind the desk. There was another, plainer, wooden one, pulled up to the desk at an angle from some other part of the room.

Potter's eyes were open, the brilliant green dull and glassy, staring straight ahead. At nothing. His glasses were skewed, barely balancing on the bridge of his nose, and his mouth was open, from which leaked a frothy mixture of blood and stomach bile. More was spattered on the pages beneath. Pansy held a hand to her nose against the stench.

Just at that moment, the coroner arrived. Wilson Jeffreys came into the room as he always did, like a whirlwind of excuses and strange non-sequitur comments about the weather. He pulled out his wand, said a brief hello to the Aurors in the room, and waved it over Potter's motionless form as though this wasn't one of the most important wizards in the world lying dead before him.

Mulberry was ready with a quill and pad to write down the details.

"Poor bugger," Wilson said, tutting softly, as if Potter were a small toddler who'd simply misbehaved. "Time of death, approximately half-midnight," he announced after a moment. He waved his wand again, waited in silence, and then said, "Stomach contains traces of acid, and hints of a rather potent potion. I'll need to get him back to the lab, but I believe he may have been paralyzed."

Pansy's stomach dropped. "It wasn't an accident, then."

She only missed a beat before continuing, and she found her composure quickly. "Alright, people, we've got to move fast. I've ordered strict silence on the subject, but you know the Prophet - they could be in bloody Antarctica and still know if a Kneazle scratched its bum back home. Wilson, get Pot-" she faltered. "Get the body to the lab as soon as Creevey gets the shots. Mulberry, have you interviewed the witness?"

"Archer's taking care of that in the kitch'n," he said, looking up from his pad.

"Good. Is the family secured?"

"There's a note on the fridge what says the wife's away," Mulberry responded in the slow way of his. "She gives an address."

"Get an owl to her, urgent. Have her come to my office, and don't, for  _Merlin's_  sake, mention what it's for."

Everything burst into motion when she finished speaking. Efficiency was one of the reasons she'd been so successful in her field. Mulberry vanished to owl Potter's widow, and Wilson stepped back to allow Dennis Creevey, who'd just arrived, access to what had just become a crime scene. Creevey looked like he'd just rolled out of bed, his chestnut hair a flyaway mess and his eyes puffy with sleep. His field robes weren't done to code, but he had on gloves and his camera hung from his neck.

"Sorry," he mumbled, and he stopped short in front of the desk, his eyes taking in just what was in front of him. "Bloody hell." He ran his fingers through his already thoroughly-mussed hair. "It's true, then. I didn't believe it when I got the owl."

"Time is of the essence, Mr. Creevey," Pansy prompted, and Dennis started snapping pictures. Pike finally returned from the sitting room and assisted Creevey in numbering each shot for evidence.

Satisfied that the crime scene was now in good hands, she moved from the room toward the back of the house, where a warm glow informed her the kitchen must be. Dawn was already creeping through the windows, and even inside, Pansy could feel the outside world beginning to come alive, drawn out by the sun.

When she entered the Potters' cosy kitchen, the smell of cinnamon and cloves instantly enveloped her. A wreath hung upon the open kitchen door. Abruptly, Pansy's throat constricted. She was thrown for a moment back to Hogwarts, to Christmases there, when the Great Hall was filled with the smell of Christmas feast. She remembered Potter and Weasley sitting amongst the sparse remnants of the Gryffindors, and how much she'd loathed them at the time. Because Draco loathed them, and because they were Gryffindors.

"Auror Parkinson!" Prudence Archer, who had been seated at the circular table in the middle of the room, stood abruptly. She glanced guilty at her cup of tea. "I was just talking to James - I mean, Auror Oggen, about his account. Questioning him, I mean."

Pansy waved off the feeble lie. "I'd like to hear it again, if you don't mind. The condensed version. What exactly were you doing here in the middle of the night, Oggen?"

James Oggen, one of the Aurors who worked under her, and Potter's partner on the Rogers case, looked more haggard than she'd ever seen him. Thick bags accented his bloodshot brown eyes. He'd been rubbing them. His lips were chapped.

He cleared his throat. "I came in around four, through the fireplace. We'd been working nonstop the past two days - you know that, of course - and we'd finally decided to call it a night, maybe around eight or so, but I couldn't sleep. So I started looking into a couple witnesses from the Rogers case, as you do, and I had a bit of a breakthrough. I tried firecalling, but Harry didn't…" he trailed off, his voice cracking.

Impatient as she was, Pansy was used to witnesses getting emotional during the retelling of their experiences. She waited for him to continue, and Archer took a seat again.

"Well," he started again, "he didn't answer. So I threw some more powder in the fire and came through. I found him there, like that, with his eyes all open and all the blood and-"again, Oggen stopped and pressed the heels of his hands deep into his eyes, rubbing furiously, as though he might expunge the image from his mind. "He was dead. Cold. I checked him for a pulse, but he didn't have one, and that's when I owled you. I used some paper from the sitting room. And then I went around the house and made sure there wasn't… I just wanted to make sure Ginny and the kids were okay, and then I remembered he said that she was going out of town for her team, y'know, and the kids were staying with her mum and dad since we've been working so hard." Oggen took a deep breath, distressed again. "It was a week before his bloody birthday."

Pansy swallowed. "Thank you, Oggen. That was very helpful. And you've got all that written down?"

Archer nodded, and, satisfied, Pansy relieved Oggen from duty for the next week. She'd put someone else on the Rogers case, which couldn't benefit from an emotionally-distressed officer any more than it could from a dead one.

From there, she ventured back into the study. Creevey was finishing his pictures, and Wilson, in that magical way of his, had already removed the body.

Pansy cast a quick  _Tempus_  charm and informed Pike that, as senior, he would be in charge of processing the scene. "I shouldn't need to emphasize the importance of thoroughness," she said. "Potter is -  _was_  - the most important wizard of our age, and a beacon of hope for a lot of people besides that. Today, the entirety of the wizarding world is going to wake up and learn that he's gone." She glanced again at the  _Tempus_  charm still hovering smokily beside her, displaying the current time. "I've got to get back to my office and meet with his wife."

Pike assured her that no stone would be left unturned and that he'd get a report written up as soon as possible. She addressed each of her remaining team members in turn, and ordered each not to breathe a word to the press until she was able to speak to the Ministry's press manager. She was amazed, when she stepped outside, to find not even a single reporter. Not even Rita Skeeter had gotten ahold of the story yet.

That gave her some comfort before she Disapparated and reappeared a moment later outside of a telephone booth. She stepped inside, closed it behind her, and dialed 6-2-4-4-2. When she arrived in the lobby, tiredness suddenly washed over her, and she allowed the monotonous, constant buzz of Ministry employees greeting one another before work to lull her into auto-pilot. The elevator ride was long but pleasant, even with the various paper airplanes which hovered about overhead.

There wasn't anyone waiting outside her office when she got there, which told her that Potter's widow wasn't there yet. She unlocked the door with a wave of her wand and stepped inside, then immediately sunk into her comfortable leather chair.

All at once, she was very aware of everything she'd been ignoring for the past hour and a half. Her head throbbed gently, persistently, sending off-shoots even down her jaw and into her teeth. Her joints ached, especially her ankles, and her back felt like someone had rolled it into knots. She glanced at the large mirror which lined the wall across from her desk. Bags lined her eyes, and she wondered vaguely when she slept last, but she couldn't remember. Her hair was still in its severe bun, thanks to a handy charm Millicent Bulstrode had taught her in sixth year. It was still dark, but several gray streaks had cropped up over the years. The lines around her mouth made it look like she was perpetually frowning, and her nose was still short and upturned.

For a moment, a hint of salt at the corner of her right eye, and then a sharp knock on her oak door.

"Come in," Pansy said, and ran the back of her hand under her eye. "It's open."

The large door swung open to reveal a harrassed and equally tired-looking woman of around 37. She looked as though she'd just rolled out of bed and tossed on whatever clothes she had. She didn't wear any make-up, although the remnants of some mascara still clung to her thinning lashes. Her hair, however, was as bright as ever, and in the firelight, it almost glowed.

"You wanted to see me, Parkinson?"

A wave of sudden, unprofessional emotion welled up inside of her, and she wondered how in seven hells you were supposed to tell a wife that her husband was dead.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pansy has a rough encounter with Ginny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I realize it's been pretty much a year since I updated this fic. Let's just say that college is hard, and I've been swamped. This fic has been burning at the back of my mind, though, and I hope there's still interest in it. Hopefully I'll be able to update more frequently. Thank you for reading, as always!

"This had better be good, Parkinson. I was sleeping. We've got a match tomorrow."

Despite her fiery tone, Ginny's eyes betrayed her worry. She knew that Pansy wouldn't call her out of bed in the middle of the night for no reason. The moment she'd set foot in the office, her eyes had darted around, searching for Harry, but upon finding him absent, her jaw set tight.

Pansy sat behind her desk. She kept her spine rigid and her face impassive, but once Ginny came to sit in one of the uncomfortable leather chairs across from her, she pushed a cup of tea towards her. "I'm sorry," she said, and meant it. "We've had a spot of trouble."

"Trouble?"

"There's been an accident."

"In the middle of the night?"

"Not an accident, then." Pansy paused, struggling to find the words. She bowed her head and rubbed her temples. "Damn it, I can't do this."

"He's dead," Ginny said, her voice steady, almost resigned. "As soon as I got the owl, I knew."

Pansy looked up and caught Ginny's gaze. Her eyes were glassy, but she seemed altogether unsurprised at the information. Her shoulders quivered.

"Yes."

"How?" The word came out sharp.

"We haven't determined a cause. We found him in his study."

Ginny clutched the mug of tea desperately. Her fingers looked so small and frail, not anything like the tough Quidditch player Pansy knew her to be. Then, abruptly, she let out a choking sob. Tea sloshed over and spilled down her leg, but she didn't seem to notice.

Pansy handed a tissue across the desk to her, then slowly reached for a small legal pad and self-inking quill. "Ginny," she said gently, "I'm so sorry, I know it's an awful time, but I need you to answer some questions if you can."

To her credit, Ginny nodded into her tissue. She took a few deep, rasping breaths and tilted her head back. "Of course. Of course I will."

This, at least, was easy. She could do this with her eyes closed. Pansy allowed the tedious work to lull her into a numb state. She walked Ginny through the last twenty-four hours, asking her where she'd been, who she'd been with. Was there anyone who could confirm her story? Did Harry have any enemies? Obviously he did; he was The Boy Who Lived twiceover, and there were still sympathizers of the Dark Lord lurking in the shadows. Finally, Pansy reached the question she'd been dreading.

"When was the last time you spoke to him?"

Ginny got very quiet, drawing into herself. Guilt gnawed at Pansy's insides, and she wished she was anywhere but here. Back at her flat with her old Doberman and a cup of tea, or even in bloody Azkaban with its cold walls. Anywhere else.

"I think," Ginny started feebly, "It was yesterday morning. No, the day before that. I didn't speak to him yesterday. We usually fire call first thing, but I couldn't get him yesterday. We had a row. I don't even remember what it was about."

"You couldn't reach him?" Pansy probed.

"No. It was odd," Ginny admitted. "He didn't try me again, either. D'you think that's important?"

"It could be. Are you sure you can't remember what the row was about?"

Ginny's brow knit as she frowned. "I think it was something about his birthday. He wanted me to come home—Oh, Merlin." She held her hand over her mouth. "And I said no. I wasn't going to be with him on his birthday. I'm a monster!"

And she was off, her shoulders heaving with each heavy sob. Pansy passed her a few more tissues. She felt her back knotting with every sound and knew she wasn't going to last much longer. Neither of them would.

"Listen, Ginny, you aren't—I mean, you should contact your mum. Go see your kids, be with them. Don't go home for a couple of days, alright? Lie low. Once the Prophet gets word of this…" She trailed off at Ginny's panicked expression, then hurried on. "Don't worry, we'll handle it. I promise. Just try and take care of yourself for now and let us worry about that."

Again, Ginny nodded. She seemed to steel herself for a moment, then drained the last of her tea and set it down on Pansy's desk. "You'll find who did it," she said with certainty. "And when you do, I'll see him hanged."

The sharp words startled her, but Pansy set her mouth in a grim line and nodded sharply. "We'll get them," she promised. At least that was a promise she knew she could keep. Already anxieties formed in the back of her mind—what if she couldn't? How would that make the Ministry look? The Auror offices? She could imagine that damned Skeeter woman sinking her teeth into the supposed incompetency of her department.

"Right," Ginny said. "I should be with my children." The sentence hung in the air for a moment, as though Ginny found it hard to actually rise from her seat. She looked lost.

"Use my fire," Pansy offered. She grabbed a battered tea tin from her desk and prized it open. "It's the least I can do."

Ginny smiled gratefully and took a handful of powder from the tin. "Thanks. I do mean it. And for what it's worth, I don't blame you. It's not like we hadn't considered it. It's always a dangerous business. I think that's why Harry loved it, honestly. It just gave him something to do once the war was done."

Once Ginny departed for her mum's place, Pansy sat alone behind her desk. She stared at the file in front of her and mulled Ginny's last words. She'd seen that look in Harry's eyes before; like he took everything just a bit too personal. Like he still had a battle to fight. It made him a strong Auror, but it also got him in trouble more than once. Quietly, Pansy wondered if it hadn't gotten him in too deep this time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pansy prepares to tell the world about Harry's murder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, another year, another chapter. Graduated college in that time. Let's see if I can write a little more, this time!

Pansy had a tick in her right eye, caused from too much caffeine or not enough sleep, or probably both. Nervously, habitually, she checked the time. How long did she have before a member of the press got wind of the biggest story this side of the Atlantic? She stared helplessly at the mess of parchment and ink before her.

 

She needed to finish this press release before the conference in just an hour’s time, but she’d been working for nearly that long already, and she’d gotten nowhere. Her efforts were rewarded with line upon line of scratched out words and aborted sentences. Her hair had fallen loose from its bun, despite the charm in place.

 

As her motivation and confidence nosedived, Pansy heard a panicked knock at her office door. Before she could open her mouth, the door burst open. Hermione Weasley—no, Granger again—stood on shaking legs in the doorway, clutching the doorknob for support.

 

“Is it true?” she demanded breathlessly, her voice wavering.

 

Pansy’s expression must have told her everything she needed to know, because she shut the door behind her and looked like she might collapse.

 

“Have a seat, Granger.”

 

But Hermione was one step ahead of her. She sank heavily into the chair opposite Pansy’s desk, where not two and a half hours before, Potter’s widow had been sitting.

 

“How did you hear?” Anxiety clawed at Pansy’s throat. If word had gotten out already, there was no stopping the media shit-storm to follow.

 

Hermione’s eyes were puffy from crying, juxtaposed harshly with the laugh-lines that decorated her features. “Harry and I went through a war together. Of course I knew. And the whole Ministry is in a flutter.”

 

Pansy frowned. “Granger, I have to tell you that this is strictly confidential. I know you’re upset, but I can’t say anything until—”

 

“—The press release, of course,” Hermione finished for her. “I know how these things work.” She glanced at the parchment on the desk. “Is that it, there?” Without asking or waiting for Pansy’s response, she reached across and plucked the parchment from under Pansy’s nose, sharp brown eyes already devouring the words.

 

“Confidential!” Pansy protested, but it was too late.

 

“ _Murdered_?” Hermione choked out in a small voice. “In Godric’s Hollow?”

 

“It’s happened before.”

 

Hermione looked up and met her eyes, then nodded shortly. “Right.” She looked back at the paper and finished reading it. Slowly, she shook her head. “This is—May I?” She nodded toward the quill at Pansy’s side.

 

Pansy hesitated, but her shoulder slumped in exhausted defeat. “Have at it. If I look at it again I might just claw my eyes out.”

 

Hermione took the quill and bent over the desk, nose pressed nearly to the parchment. The scratch of the nib was all Pansy heard for the next few moments, but it left her mind blissfully quiet. She watched with tired eyes as Granger’s hand flew across the paper, and saw ink slowly building up on her skin. This wasn’t proper procedure—Granger shouldn’t even know about any of this—but Pansy was too tired to care. Her eyelids drooped.

 

“You look awful,” Hermione noted, looking up from the parchment for a brief moment. “How long have you got until the press release?”

 

Pansy checked the time again. “An hour.”  
  
“Why don’t you try to sleep? I’ll take care of this.”  
  
“I appreciate that, Granger, but—”

 

“Please.” Granger looked at her imploringly. “If I don’t _do_ something, I don’t know what I’ll do. I can’t just sit here. Please, let me do this.”

 

Their eyes met for a long moment, but finally, Pansy heaved a sigh. “Fine, but let me read it over before. And for Merlin’s sake, don’t leave this room with that.”

 

Hermione nodded, clearly grateful not to be banished from the Head Auror’s office.

 

Without saying anything else to her, Pansy moved from her post behind the desk. Every joint in her body ached. She rotated her neck and slowly made her way to an armchair by the fire. As she sat down, the fire warmed her cheeks. She leaned her head back, closed her eyes, and drifted off to the sound of Hermione’s diligent writing.

 

She awoke to someone shaking her shoulder. Her eyes fluttered open groggily.  
  
“Sorry,” Hermione said, “It’s almost time. I’ve finished the press release, if you want to read it.”  
  
Slowly, everything came into focus. Reality resumed, and Pansy straightened up to take the parchment from Granger, who offered it to her like a peace offering. Blinking sleep from her eyes, Pansy squinted at the paper.

  
“It looks good, Granger,” she said after a moment. “Thank you.”

“Is there anything else I can do?” Hermione wrung her hands fretfully, “I’d love to be of help.”  
  
“You can help by not mentioning this to anyone when you leave. Go back to your office, do your paperwork. If you can’t do that, I understand. Take the day off and be with your kids, or with Potter’s wife.”

 

Hermione’s hand went to her mouth, and Pansy heard a sharp intake of breath. “I didn’t—Ginny must be—I’ll go.” And in a flurry of bushy hair and dark robes, Hermione was gone. Pansy was alone with the crackling fire to prepare for the ambush of press in the next ten minutes.

 

She sighed wearily and read over Hermione’s words again, resolving to deliver the blow as gently as possible and minimize the backlash toward the Ministry. If she was lucky, there would be demonstrations of solidarity in Potter’s honor. If she wasn’t, well. Riots in the streets hadn’t happened for many years, but if her taskforce had to handle it, they could.

 

By the time she needed to head downstairs, Pansy had ensured that every hair was in place, that the bags under her eyes were carefully masked, and that her demeanor was professional and composed. No one would accuse her of incompetence. And if Potter’s killer was watching or listening—they would know that Pansy Parkinson was a force to be reckoned with, all on her own.


End file.
